


The Sun Also Collapses

by tpmbouquins



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Genre: Angst, Beautiful Boy shooting, Depression (see notes for more infos about it), Journaling, M/M, Texting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 09:38:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18029243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tpmbouquins/pseuds/tpmbouquins
Summary: "Perhaps was I not built to be an actor anyway. Perhaps am I already covered by too many cracks, wounds that open as many invitations for the darkness to crawl on my skin, plunge into my insides and murder my sanity."





	The Sun Also Collapses

**Author's Note:**

> IMPORTANT — I don’t like to tag my stories too much to not spoil so I think that I need to make a few precisions here for those who need them. If you don’t have any particular triggers and don’t want to know too much, please skip this part.  
> The prompt to this fic is depression. I choose to not write about a heavy one but it still digs into pretty dark thoughts, loneliness and a lot of self-loathing. It is also set during the shooting of Beautiful Boy, so there are mentions of being hungry, losing weight and not eating enough. If you’re not into the right headspace, it may not be the right thing to read right now for you. Please, be safe and don’t hesitate to ask any specific questions if you need to know something before reading.
> 
> A few well deserved thank yous — because this story is really a team work.  
> Thank you so much to the lovely person who has reached out to me on tumblr and trust me with this prompt. I bet that you must feel like I’m the one to be thanked for writing your idea but you deserve it too. When I say yes to this prompt, I wasn’t expecting that writing this story would become such a enriching and rewarding journey for me. Thank you so much to help me grow a little bit more ❤️  
> Thank you to my own Timmy (😂)… what the f- is your user name here already ? MarionMinette (or @youreyescantakemethere on tumblr) ! Thank you for the help, for the support, for the love, for everything. I say thank you now that I still have the chance because we both know you will have killed me before I post the next one.  
> Thank you so much to VesperCat (same username on tumblr) for proofreading my English. If Timmy and Armie don’t look like illiterate it’s not entirely thanks to me. Thank you for your help and the clarity of your suggestions !  
> And many thank yous to everyone who offered to help, showed support, sent love and everything else in between. I don’t think I have ever felt as much expectations towards something I was writing. I still don’t know exactly how it makes me feel but thanks anyway. 😂
> 
> FEW INFOS ABOUT THE STORY — Timeline of the fic is loosely based on reality. Most of the Hammer’s trips/events are accurate but Timmy is way more harder to track. I didn’t want to be too attached to accuracy though, so a few things are probably wrong. Let’s call it artistic license.  
> The few lines Timmy is quoting are all Kid Cudi’s lyrics.  
> Speaking of Kid Cudi, this fic has a soundtrack, which is basically half of the songs of ‘Man of the moon : the End of the day’.  
> Spotify playlist is here : https://open.spotify.com/user/tpmbouquins/playlist/758SkUdsguD9oLJJWV9gcq?si=_h1dWDFTTW6YAU6AUWlkrQ  
> \- Cudi is for Timmy’s mood when he’s alone ; the song ’Someone to stay’ by Vancouver Sleep Clinic is for A&T moments together.
> 
> The title of the story is inspired by the title of the Hemingway’s novel ‘The Sun also rises’ (which I haven’t read (yet?)) and a line from the song ‘Alive’ by Kid Cudi (ft. Ratatat) : ‘I watch the sun collapse’.
> 
> Everything written in bold type is written by Timmy. Italics are for Armie.
> 
> It’s all fiction. Hopefully, reality was smoother. I certainly hope so.

**03-26-17  
****First week (and a half) in LA for Beautiful Boy. We’ve started rehearsing and getting to know each other a little bit more. Everybody seems nice even if the vibe is weird and… professional, in a strange way. Not that my previous experiences on set weren’t professional but they were… warm, right from the beginning. Right now I just feel cold. I don’t really know how to describe it better or why I feel this way. Maybe it’s only the source material. It’s not easy to be goofing around when you’re dealing with those kind of topics. Or maybe we just need a little more time to know how to work as a** ~~**fam** ~~ **team. I keep forgetting that film crews aren’t supposed to become like family. I’ve just been very lucky. Being in LA isn’t helping. I have a love-hate relationship with this city but it mostly makes me feel a little bit claustrophobic even if it’s maybe a strange thing to say for a guy from NYC. I could never live in LA but I’m trying to make the most of it while I’m here. I’ve been to the LACMA today. Somehow I always feel more like myself when I can connect with some form of art.**

 

**03-28-17  
****I fainted. I fucking fainted. Because I’m fucking weak and I don’t seem to be able to handle a scene where the only thing I have to do is running. What a joke. They called an ambulance and the nutritionist who is following me for the weight loss. I’ve rarely felt this embarrassed on set. The doctor said I need to be more careful with the food and nutritional intakes now that we’ve started shooting and my days are more physically demanding. I don’t know what else I can fucking do. I can’t gain weight back before at least 2 weeks, so it’s not like I can actually eat proper, good food yet. To be honest, I feel like shit since we’ve started shooting yesterday. I’m almost constantly hungry, I suspect that the headache I have will never go away and I don’t really** **enjoy** **what I’m doing. But it’s not like I can complain, is it? I have to think about Nic and what he went through. My little problems are nothing. But it makes me wonder. Is it really the life I’m choosing for myself? Every time I’ll be working on a heavy role or a stressful job, I’ll end up feeling more dead than alive? Who’s masochistic enough to willingly do that? I guess I am. I wish I wasn’t though. I think artists who need to drag themselves in misery in order to correctly represent pain and distress are very self-centered. It’s wrong, disrespectful and unhealthy to make a story about oneself instead of making you about the story. But what do I know? I’m here, judging and being presumptuous enough to make the assumption that I will have a career when I have like three and a half lines on my resume and nobody knows who the fuck I am. Perhaps was I not built to be an actor anyway. Perhaps am I already covered by too many cracks, wounds that open as many invitations for the darkness to crawl on my skin, plunge into my insides and murder my sanity.**

**God I need to stop thinking. Why do I always make things so fucking complicated?**

 

**03-31-17  
****It’s late but I just got back from Armie’s. I was supposed to meet Dr.M after shooting and join everyone after that but I called everything off. I didn’t want to talk about what I should or should not eat and I certainly didn’t want to watch people eating while I can only drink that protein shake shit. Yeah, let’s celebrate the end of the first week of shooting with all kinds of delicious food and watch Tim starve to death in the meantime, what a fantastic idea. Fucking idiots. I’m glad they did anyway. I texted Armie and he was free — kids already asleep and Liz out somewhere — so I invited myself to his house, the closest place to a home for me here in LA. We just hang out by the pool, smoke a little and share a few drinks, talking under the starry sky, quietness all around us. I’m not really supposed to drink either but fuck it. It was the first time in too many days that I actually felt good. Peaceful. I don’t think he realizes how much I rely on him. Maybe it’s for the best, because I don’t know how to be otherwise. Everything feels so easy with Armie. With him, I don’t have to think, I can only be. If I have questions I ask them, if I’m feeling insecure I say it, if I don’t feel like talking we don’t talk, if I** **need** **to talk he lets me ramble for hours, always listening, and if I need to be held I only have to look at him and his arms are already wide open, ready to shelter my heart. This happens more often than not. Either because I’m cold and Armie is like a giant walking heater (with soft skin and his own unique scent which I wish I could bottle and carry around with me) or because I’m being a brat and he thinks I need to be punished by tickles or wrestling moves. I don’t care if it looks weird. I need every aspect of our relationship and I know he also needs everything, sometimes even more than I do.**

  

_Saturday, April 1st 2017_

_Timmy looks terrible — and God only knows if the kid has to make some real effort to_ _not_ _look beautiful. When he told me he has to loose some weight for this role I first thought his director was mad. Now I know for sure that the guy is fucking insane. There isn’t much left of him beside bones and skin. And healthy, shiny, bouncy curls ; strangely. Of course, Timmy says he’s fine and ask me not to worry because he will be back to eating normally in less than two weeks from now. Right. The day I’ll stop worrying about this kid will be the day I’ll be fucking dead and buried. And if I find a way to worry about him from the afterlife, I’ll do that too. Even without mentioning his weight, Timmy seemed a little off to me last night. I know the story he’s working on is rough but — I don’t know. He seemed different, a little less himself even if only by his way of drinking, not too much like it happens sometimes but too quickly, like if he’s craving it instead of enjoying it. Perhaps he’s right. I worry too much._

 

_Monday, April 10th 2017_

_Ok, scratch what I wrote last week. Obviously I’m far from worrying too much. If anything, I don’t worry ENOUGH. Brian Swardstrom from all people called me today, asking me to look out for Timmy. Like I wouldn’t do that without being told to. He didn’t want to tell me much about what’s really happening so I called Timmy. He sounds very tired and didn’t say much more than his agent but spent a lot of time trying to reassure me, repeating it was nothing and that he will be fine. He said that a little too many times for me not to be suspicious._

_Problem is, I’m in Russia right now and won’t be back until Thursday — with the Kimmel show to tape and LA Free Fire premiere on the same evening. No wonder I fucking hate promo tour. Useless things which take crazy amount of time without any guarantee of result. I don’t want people to see our movie because they’ve seen it everywhere and feel obliged to watch it. I want them to care about the story and enjoy our work because they find it good not because they see me dancing on whatever talk show or hear me talk about how I can grow a beard. Who cares about that?_

_I’ll see Timmy on Friday night. At least he can eat again now so I’ll cook something he likes and make sure he’s eating enough._

 

**11-04-17  
** **I’m so fucking tired. And it’s like 2pm. I’m not shooting today. Yesterday and tomorrow neither. I fainted Sunday. I fainted twice actually, but nobody had noticed the first time. Wasn’t that lucky the second time so they called Dr.M. again. Felix wasn’t very happy about it but the doctor was even more pissed at him. I think they’ve argued about me but I’m not sure. I was still dizzy and didn’t really want to hear what they were saying anyway. I felt enough like a child already. Now I have three days off to rest. I’m supposed to gain some weight back but I’m not very good at that either. I ate a little bit at some point yesterday and have barely moved from my bed since then. I’m so tired. I wish I could sleep but can’t even manage to do that. Every time I lay down and try to close my eyes it’s like someone had lighted all the darkest corners of my brain up and I can’t ignore them anymore. They’re shadows looking at me, staring, whispering, laughing, yelling and I don’t know how to make them stop. Or maybe I do but I don’t want to because I’m afraid of the silence that would come after them.**

**I feel so alone and I’m the only one to blame for it. I pushed everybody away. Either because I too often say "no" when they want to see me or because it’s obvious that I don’t really care when I say "yes". Everybody must think I’m an asshole. Maybe they’re right after all.**

**Kiernan asked me to come over at her parents place the other day. They have always been good to me and I enjoy spending time with her and all of them. Used to enjoy I guess, since I said no once again for no reason. I said I had to work when I didn’t. The only thing I needed to do was to call Brian and I didn’t even make it. I still need to talk to him but now I'm pissed at him. Or at least I would be if I had enough energy left to feel something as strong as anger. I guess it would be more accurate to say that I’m vaguely annoyed right now. He has called Armie to ask him to "watch out for Timothée" because right now "he couldn’t come to LA to do it himself". That’s just** **awesome** **. But I appreciate that Armie has called to me instead of conspiring behind my back. I just want— I don’t even know what I want. Maybe I should try to sleep. My head hurts.**

 

**15-04-17  
** **Why do I always have to ruin everything? Everything was so fucking perfect last night and now it’s all messed up. I’ve been to Armie’s again last night. Like two weeks ago, Harper was already asleep when I got there and I only saw Liz (and baby Ford) on their way out — something about an Easter-emergency last minute trip Liz had to do to her bakeries. Anyway, the evening was good. I know Armie was still worried because of Brian’s call but seeing me eat eased him a little bit. That’s Armie : he thinks good food can fix almost everything. Which, with his cooking, is very close to the truth. I mean, I’m half-French so I know what a really good dish looks like and Armie’s cooking is on the same range. It’s funny when I think about it, his cooking is kind of like him : warm, generous and with an unique sense of homecoming. We spent most of the time in the kitchen, even if he didn’t allow me to do anything. Well I couldn’t have been much help for the actual cooking (my French half only goes so far) but I could have cleaned or something. But every time I tried to, he had physically pushed me back to my seat, either with a gentle touch of his hand on my shoulder or a light brush of his fingers on my hips. So I just sat there, drank wine and watched him chop things which he has cooked into amazing dishes and cleaned after we’ve finished eating. Maybe it sounds boring for most people but they are actually my favorite moments with him. I like do stuff — going places, trying crazy things and partying — with my other friends but somehow, with Armie, I’ve never needed anything else than that : quiet, quality time between the two of us. We don’t really do well together around other people anyway. Either because we have to tone things down in order to not make people feel weird and end up feeling uncomfortable ourselves or because we get so caught into our own world we forget about everybody else. But it’s okay. I don’t mind. Like I said, times like these are my favorites so I wouldn’t trade them for anything else. It was so late when I finally managed to talk myself into going back to my place that Armie offered me to stay the night. One of the guest rooms are practically already mine anyway. What I hadn’t expected is for him to crawl in bed with me to watch a movie. But he did and it felt like Crema all over again. Back when we were letting our instincts slide and wander without any need to question or understand them because we were shielded by Elio and Oliver. Not that he broke my heart after that. If anything, it was harder for him than for me. Being like that with him — my fingertips lightly petting his golden hair, my lips kissing I love yous into his warm, soft skin — has always felt natural to me. Being as well with me was new to him. Learning it into the safety of our Italian cocoon was less difficult than exposing this newborn part of him to the outside world. He fell asleep before the end of the movie but it’s his face I have continued to watch. For once, it wasn’t anxiety or insomnia that kept me away from Morpheus’ arms, but my desire to not miss a single second of this, of us, of one heavenly moment which was cuddling me into a blissful state of mind I knew that wasn’t meant to last.**

**It didn’t last. Reality came back in the form of Harper asking for her Daddy. And — I don’t really know what happened. It was too early and I hadn’t have enough sleep? She was loudly screaming while trying to brush my hair (what the hell was she doing with a hairbrush at 6:12a.m. ??) and my head was hurting? Truth is, it was mostly because she was the one thing that claimed Armie back away from me and my selfish needs. I snapped. I yelled at her, badly and while he was still lying next to me, barely awake. I was mortified even before she began to cry. I was mortified HEARING myself and the words I was throwing at her. I couldn’t even look at him after that. I said I was sorry about a million times and ran away.**

**I should apologize. Like properly apologize to Harper and to him for… everything. I fucked up. I know I did. Maybe I should wait until after Ford’s baptism. It’s not like I can show up in the middle of that kind of family celebration anyway.**

 

_Saturday, April 15th 2017_

_I saw a kid, around seven or eight, walking with his mother on my way to the store. He was smiling. All of the sudden he spun around for no apparent reason, did two or three jumps, dance a little then start to walk normally again, still smiling. He reminded me of someone until... until I realize Timmy doesn't do that anymore. Something is wrong. He was here last night. Good news, he’s eating almost normally again. He has gained a little bit of weight back and he seems less fragile than the last time I saw him. Bad news, well… I still don’t know what’s going on with him. Sometimes it’s him, it’s really him — my sweet, smartass, affectionate, little shit — and sometimes, when I look at him, it’s like half of his colors has faded away. I hate that he went back to his place leaving an additional few of them behind. I have to keep them safe and return them to him. This half-version of him isn’t him. If everything was normal, he wouldn’t have run away like that. He would have made sure Harper was smiling again and that we were good before leaving. I’m not even mad at him. I know kids can be a lot, especially when you’re not a parent yourself and even more when you’re going through a stressful time at work._

_Fuck. Something is really wrong. Am I failing him again?_

_I texted Liz to know if we know Carell. Turns out that we don't really but she still has the contact of his agent and his personal numbers, both home and cell. I've never understood how she does things like that but even if it irritates me most of the time, I have to admit it can be convenient. Not that I drew very much from that phone call anyway. If anything, it pissed me off. But I did call the guy and fuck if I hate me for that. I don’t want to infantilize him. Everybody else is already doing it even if he doesn’t deserve it. The bastard is way smarter than any of us. Carell wasn’t any help anyway. He didn’t say much more except that Timmy was "professional, talented and always very nice" on set. No shit, Sherlock. "Anything else?" I asked. "No, nothing special". I gave up on counting on him at this moment. Anyone describing Timmy with something like "nothing special" is either not paying attention or a fucking moron. Whatever suits Carell best, he won’t be of any help here and there is no way I’m going to call the mad man who asks someone to lose 20 pounds when they’re already barely above 130. So back to square one. Fuck. I’m so worried about him._

 

**04-20-17  
****"The sky might fall but I’m not worried at all". I’ve always understood this line as something positive. Like being so strong or confident in life that even if everything goes to shit, you’ve managed to find enough peace to wait and hope for better times or something. But I was wrong, wasn’t I? I’m so fucking STUPID, but who’s surprised? It’s the exact opposite at the matter of fact. Everything already went to shit and I’m not worried, but it’s because I don’t care. I mean what’s the point? I can’t even handle a heavy job without fainting every two seconds, without Brian freaking out enough to call Armie to paternalize me and Armie not trusting me? I’m never going to be able to make a name for myself. God what a waste of time I am. Soon enough, everyone will realize that. And in a few years, people will ask "What happened to that weird kid who played with Armie Hammer in that beautiful film by Luca Guadagnino? Clearly he hadn’t what he takes to last". Maybe I should quit. Like for good. Maybe it isn’t too late for them to re-shoot my scenes with a better actor? Or maybe they could make my character die. …shit. Shitshitshit. Who thinks about things like this? They can’t make Nic die. Nic is a** **real** **person. He’s alive. If anyone deserves to die, it’s me. It’s not like many people would miss me anyway. Well, sure, a few people would be sad but they’d come around. I’m useless. Nobody actually NEEDS me, so me being dead wouldn’t make much difference. If anything, that would be one less bad person on Earth, at least. Who but a horrible person would wish for people’s death or unhappiness? I deserve to feel like shit.**

  **I mean, I’ve been horrible with… everyone, basically, right? Well, no, that’s not true. I’ve been pulling the wool over everybody's eyes but I’ve been horrible to Armie. I’ve been needy and intrusive and only thinking about myself and now I’ve been rude and mean to his daughter who’s barely two. Who needs a friend like me? I would hate me if I was a friend of mine. I** **do** **hate me even if I should be used to live with myself by now. I’m too busy with self-loathing to be overwhelmed by the guilt. Because I should feel guilty but I’m too exhausted for that. I feel like I have barely enough energy to get out of bed and shower and do my fucking job, even less to stress out about all the things I did wrong. It’s not like I can undo them anyway, may as well ignore them. It is what it is. Perhaps I should try not to give a fuck about anything. It would make things easier.**

 

**04-24-17  
** **Ok, I think I get it. I’m not exactly going to ‘fake it until I feel it’ but something like that. I’m not sure if it’s ever going be real but I can still fake it, can’t I?This way, I can continue with my life, even if I don’t really feel anything anymore. I mean I know what is expected from me and I’m an actor so it shouldn’t be that difficult.**

**I think it works. Went to the Hammer’s this morning, acted like my old self, everything was** **good** **normal. I can do this.**

**"I’m happy, that’s just the saddest lie."**

 

 

_Monday, April 24th 2017_

_I almost didn’t see it. I can’t believe I’ve almost missed it. I came very close to believing your lies, Timmy, you know that? And I don’t know whom I’m more angry at right now. You, for doing this or me, for being such a giant idiot. I should have known. I should have known you would see acting your life as the easy way out. That’s something I have mastered with time after all. Because you’re so good at it, I’ve let myself be blinded by the smoke screen you’re hiding behind. But you’ve faked all of it this morning, didn’t you? All your smiles, your jokes and your happiness, all of it from start to finish. You did a too perfect job, this is why I saw it. It wasn’t you. I was a script of you, written by you. But you don’t know yourself as I know you, Timmy._

_I saw it right from the moment you had shown up for breakfast with all your French pastries. Seriously, Timmy? You, awake and out of bed before noon when you’re only shooting at night? But you didn’t want me to see. You went straight to apologizing to Harper even if she had already forgiven you. You had entertained her for a bit, just enough to make her feel special, then went to kiss Ford’s forehead while listening to Liz chatting about whatever party — I don’t even know if it was one we’ve already attended to or one that hasn’t happened yet. You were so you, so perfectly you, it would have been so easy to turn a blind eye on it and believe everything. But I couldn’t._

_I couldn’t see how bad things were before you start hiding from me. Why are you hiding from me, Timmy? And if you’re feigning with me now, for how long have you been feigning with others? I don’t understand. I don’t understand and I’m scared, even if I shouldn’t be, because it’s not about me. But how could I be not scared while I was watching you, standing in front of a wall made of pretenses you have so consciously built to silently die behind, and laughing your fake happiness for everyone to be fooled. You were glowing in the morning light. I was watching the Sun collapse._

 

_Saturday, April 29th 2017_

_He doesn’t want to tell me anything. I’ve tried. Over the past few days, I’ve tried several times. He has denied, eluded and now he’s avoiding me. I don’t know what else to do._

 

**05-01-17  
****I think something is wrong with me. Well, I know there are many things wrongs with me, but I mean SERIOUSLY wrong. Like my brain is dying. Or my soul maybe. I don’t even know how to say it. I — I don’t** **feel** **my acting anymore? I just don’t give a shit about it, I guess and it scares the shit out of me. I can’t lose acting. I just. I just can’t. But I feel like it’s already gone. I looked the other way for one second, blinked and it was gone. The sense of rightness when I’m on set, the jolt of excitement when I’m about to play a scene and the feeling of peacefulness that invades every cell of my body every time I hand my skin, voice and heart over to a character… It’s all gone. There is nothing left. Now everything I care about is doing the job as quickly as possible, go home and sleep.**

**What if it never comes back? Acting isn’t only something I do. It’s who I am. What the fuck am I supposed to do if I lose who I am? It’s the only thing that makes me worthy.**  

**I texted Armie. God, I’m so fucking pathetic. He’s not even here. He’s at the MET Gala. Of course he’s at the MET Gala. He’s Armie fucking Hammer. And I am me, a failure, alone in my apartment, freaking out. I don’t even know how many messages I sent to him. Of course he didn’t answer, it’s the middle of the night there. It’s not like he’s able to hear his phone when he’s sleeping so he generally switches the airplane mode on. A whole damn symphony orchestra wouldn’t be able to wake him up anyway. Which is ridiculous. And kind of adorable. That’s why people call on Liz’s phone when there is some sort of emergency. Like with the kids or something. Maybe I should have called her.**

**Yeah, like it wouldn’t have been even MORE pathetic. "Hey Liz, sorry to bother you at 4a.m. but I’m having a panic attack over nothing and your husband is the only one able to calm me down. Yes, that’s how pathetic I am. Can you please wake him up?" Fuck, I hate myself so much.**

**I’ve printed the texts. I can’t even look at them but I can’t let myself forget. Maybe Armie won’t talk to me ever again (I mean why would he? I’m just a burden he has to carry because… I don’t even know why. I don’t know what good I’m doing to him. I suppose he keeps helping me because he’s just that good. The best, actually. But no one can be the life-support system to someone else forever. Eventually, they just have to give up in order to… not die as well I guess). So when he won’t talk to me anymore, I need to remember that it was all my fault. That I fucked one of the best thing in my life up… again.**

**05-02-17  
** **Good news, Armie didn’t stop talking to me. Bad news, he doesn’t sound very happy with me and I’m not sure I can fake my way out of it this time.**

 

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**05-03-17**

 

 

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_Thursday, May 4th 2017_

_I’m at Timmy’s. I’ve dropped everything at the airport yesterday. One look at my face when we landed and Liz just told me to go. I didn’t even stop for my luggage, only grabbed my carry-on. She probably won’t be very happy that I’ve spent the night here but I’m still grateful. Because I wouldn’t have known how to handle yesterday and the night with having to deal with the kids and with everything that need to be done every time we come back home._

_Timmy wasn’t thrilled to see me at his doorstep. I already knew he won’t be, since he didn’t say anything when he texted me his infos. I had expected a difficult conversation but I hadn’t anticipated it would be… this heavy. I hadn’t anticipated much, to be honest._

_I don’t think I had already heard Timmy yell before last night. Not out of anger anyway. Timmy is loud — a little too loud — when he’s happy and thrilled, but he really isn’t when he’s in pain or frustrated. He would rather keep it to himself, bites the bullet and not say anything to anyone._

_Last night, he came home. Asked me to leave. Physically tried to make me leave. Screamed. Insulted me. Then he left. I had no fucking clue about what to do. I only know one thing : I couldn’t leave, couldn’t come back to my life before being sure he was okay. I wasn’t presumptuous enough to think I could make a difference but I didn’t trust anyone else to take care of him._

_Without his walls, stripped of his pretenses, he came back. I had been moved by the naked beauty of his heart and body before, but the nudity of his soul ripped me apart. Was I even allowed to witness this? I was subjugated by his being to the point of adoration, fear and tears. I hid mine in the haven of his curls when he found his place back in my arms. I don’t think we have stopped touching each other since then. He made me sit on his couch, his hand still in mine. Then he started to read. He picked his journal, the Beautiful Boy one, and shared every single one of the words he wrote since he came to LA. He didn’t trust himself otherwise, he said. He couldn’t conceal the ugliness inside him anymore if he cut his whole self open to me, he said. And then he said everything._

 

_His calm was upsetting. He read to me about the hunger, the starving, the fainting, the doctor calls. He read to me about how he dug into Nic's past, how it has reflected on his childhood struggles and fears, how he didn't know if it had helped or made things worse, how he loved and hated at the same time having once again more and more difficulties to separate what was him and what was his character. How it scared him for his future as an actor to not know how to prevent his role from bleeding into him. It was like being an empty vessel, he said, and not knowing who he was terrified him. He read to me about the doubts, the weight he couldn't shake of his shoulders, the never ending tiredness which kept him in bed like a prisoner with a jailer he couldn't see or hear. About the loneliness, the self-loathing I thought I knew about but really didn't, the hate for himself so strong he thought sometimes it would be better to not feel anything anymore. To not be anymore. Through all of it, he was calm. Blasé. It was his life, he was used to it this way while I wanted to scream, cry, punch something and remove my heart from my ribcage for him to understand how inconceivable were the lies told by his brain. I didn't. For him, I kept myself together and let him read until the very last word. When I asked him how he was feeling, he said it was probably worse, but since telling someone about everything was the last thing he still hadn’t tried to feel better, he wasn't risking much by giving it a shot. Well, he said, "except making you despise me but I think that you already did for most of the time so…" And then he shrugged. He was saying that he thought I despised him and he was fucking shrugging like it was no big deal. Like I haven't failed him right from the beginning. "How could you not?" He asked. "I feel so fucking guilty about you all the time, it must come from somewhere, right?"_

_By the time he went trough all of it, it was close to 1a.m.. Three more hours for my jet-lagged ass. I was dead on my feet and yet I couldn’t bring myself to leave his side. Was I supposed to go back to my house, kiss my wife and children, do what was expect of me and forget that Timmy was here alone with his thoughts? How could I be able to sleep when he didn’t know how to live?_

_I’ve stayed. Of course I’ve stayed. Feeling the light weight of his body spooning mine, his breath whispering his life to my subconscious, one of his arms circling my waist and his cold feet glued to the skin of my legs, was the only way I could have avoided the nightmares._

 

_We didn’t solve anything last night. Or I feel like we didn’t. It was most likely a step as much as a challenge for him. Timmy said he didn’t sleep much but did manage to get some rest. Whatever that means. And right now we’re still in bed. Me writing, him reading. He’s sitting with his back against my legs and I can’t see his face but I sometimes feel his fingers unconsciously brushing against my ankles. I thought he was reading what he has read to me yesterday. When I asked him if it wasn’t too painful to go over everything again, he laughed a little, turned his head to me in a wave of curls and showed me the first page. "April 06 - First days in Italy…"_

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**05-13-17**

 

 

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 **05-21-17  
** **I told Armie and the shooting is over. It felt like the end of a war. Armistice is signed and joy and happiness are expected from people. But every time someone tries, it sounds forced. Smiles are contrite, laughters like dissonances. Because there is nothing left. People have died, buildings have been destroyed and survivors have changed so much they don’t recognized themselves when they look at their reflection in the mirror. What’s to be happy about? The ground, covered by the dust, is so damaged nobody knows how to rebuild on it. There is only room to create. There is nothing but this — infinite void and empty spaces. But felicity and relief never came. Standing in the middle of nothing, dizziness is the only sensation that remains. How am I supposed to come back to "before" when everything that was there is gone?  
** **And then I realized. There is no way back after wars. We can only move forward. I was (and still am?) only at war with myself. Head of State, soldier and red bullet fallen behind the last corpse, all wrapped-up into one single body. But I didn’t die. I’m still here. Still standing. All I need to do now is live. Sounds easy.**

**How the fuck am I supposed to do that?**

**No. I can’t panic. It’s going to be fine. Armie’s here. He will physically be here in a few hours, but he’s always here with me. And I can do this. I can. I know I can. I hope I can.  
** _Of course you can, Timmy. You’re going to be fine. You’re going to be way much more than fine. You’re going to be magnificent. The world is simply waiting for you to shine and I can’t wait to see it. You have no idea how proud of you I already am, and maybe it’s partly my fault, because I suck at telling you these things. But I am. So fucking much._

_Please, please take care of yourself. For_ _you_ _._

 

_I’ll see you in New York in a couple of days._

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Last (hopefully quick) thing : I’ve stolen the plumber/psychologist line from Jared Padalecki. Well, it wasn't with plumbing but the meaning was pretty much the same. I’m not sure if he came up with it himself but it’s the first person I’ve heard sayint it, so may as well giving him the credits. And since I think the Hammers knows the Ackles, and the Ackles and the Padeleckis are family, it wasn’t a wide stretch.  
> What’s important is the message here. Asking for help when you need it is the smart thing to do. There is nothing shameful about needing help. Whoever you are, wherever you are, whatever your life is made of, there is nothing more important than your health — mental and physical. Take care of yourself.
> 
> I'm @tpmbouquins on tumblr ! :)


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